As I gobbled down a hastily prepared food Ã la barbarian style, the answer to my previous question answered in an instant. Home is where I get fed. Up until now, I didn’t feel compelled to live in this new nest until I finally moved all the stored food and cookwares.
Sitting in the midst of chaos and mini towers of boxes, my senses tried desperately to adjust to a wold devoid of sentient beings while simultaneously calculating the new most efficient way of living after the microwave was plugged in. When it comes down to the most basic, being able to feed oneself and sleeping under a roof is what makes a home home.